


Charybdis

by Code16



Series: and enter [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Caning, Corporal Punishment, M/M, Marks, Paddling, Punishment, Rough Sex, choose your own adventure (kind of), dark!Fëanor, tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:22:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: "He's starting to waver. The pen slips a few times; twice at least he catches himself as he is about to write some flight of fancy his mind briefly became. His eyes try to drift closed, he almost sways back, jerks himself up.""Am I boring you?"(Nolofinwe is tired, Feanor is not in a very good mood, and I wrote a very, very miniature cyoa)





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So a little ago someone asked on tumblr what happens to Nolofinwe if Feanor is in a bad mood, and between that and what-doesn't-happen-in _virtutem forma decorat_, this ended up resulting.
> 
> Note in advance that the two options in the second branching (both times) are very, very similar.

He hadn't gotten to sleep much. A few hours, maybe, before Feanor had him summoned. Has spent he thinks at least that much now in Feanor's chambers. Feanor had fucked him over his desk, hard and without much elaboration. Set him up after on the floor with a writing desk and an order to write the notes he's told. Now intermittently paces the room, or consults books, or scribbles on his own paper, every so often tossing out something for Nolofinwe to note down, every so often asking him to read it back.

He's starting to waver. The pen slips a few times; twice at least he catches himself as he is about to write some flight of fancy his mind briefly became. His eyes try to drift closed, he almost sways back, jerks himself up.

The pen slips again. Feanor - does not look as though he will be finished, not soon.

**[For Nolofinwe to ask Feanor to help him stay awake, see Chapter 2]**

** **[Otherwise, see Chapter 6]** **


	2. (asks for help staying awake)

He waits until he does not think he will interrupt the middle of some action. 

“Might I - ask my prince for permission to speak?” It doesn’t come out very loudly. Feanor hears. Turns.

“What?”

He could say it formally but - the same wavering pulls on him, and he doesn’t know that it will matter, so much.

“I’m going to fall asleep.” He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t look from the edge of the pen. 

“Am I boring you?” Feanor’s voice is color enough.

“No. I - don’t mean to.” How does he -

”You’ve - said before you might remind me not to.  
Please.” There’s some moments of silence. He stares at his notes, tries not to let his head drift to the wall again, not  _ now _ . 

“Get on the bed.” Shortly, but doesn’t sound - not angry outright. “On your knees, head down.” He puts the writing desk down and goes. Can see as Feanor finds a cane. Tries not to flinch. He - asked, after all.

“Six,” says Feanor, following him to the bed. Shoves his nightshirt up.

**[For Nolofinwe to ask to be restrained, see Chapter 3]**

** **[Otherwise, see Chapter 4]** **


	3. (asks for help staying awake->asks to be restrained)

“May I be restrained?” He shivers slightly at the air, though he knows already, what it feels like.

“No.   
Seven.”

He nods. Shivers harder - it won’t be seven, not if he can’t be restrained. He has never been able to be still without them, in this position or any other.

Feanor lays the cane against him. “Count them.” Pulls it back.

The cane bites the air, sears its mark across his skin. “One,” he manages. He can’t keep still, but he can get back into position, quickly. Sometimes Feanor is forgiving, of that.

“Eight,” Feanor notes. Almost casual, still not anger. That’s - better. 

“Two,” he says at the next, and “Nine,” says Feanor. He shivers harder again, the two marks burning. 

“Three.” “Ten.”

They continue like that, one for one, to the seven. Feanor takes over the count for the punishment strokes, does not issue further ones even as Nolofinwe’s ability to keep still only drops more as the numbers progress. “Fourteen,” he says with the last. Sets the cane down. “Get up.” He does. Feanor looks him over.

**[Continue to Chapter 5]**


	4. (asks for help staying awake->does not ask to be restrained)

He nods. Finds himself shivering. At the air, and - it won’t be six, not if Feanor doesn’t restrain him. He has never been able to be still without it, in this position or any other.

Feanor lays the cane against him. “Count them.” Pulls it back.

The cane bites the air, sears its mark across his skin. “One,” he manages. He can’t keep still, but he can get back into position, quickly. Sometimes Feanor is forgiving, of that.

“Seven,” Feanor notes. Almost casual, still not anger. That’s - better. 

“Two,” he says at the next, and “Eight,” says Feanor. He shivers harder, the two marks burning. 

“Three.” “Nine.”

They continue like that, one for one, to the six. Feanor takes over the count for the punishment strokes, does not issue further ones until the end, even as Nolofinwe’s ability to keep still only drops more as the numbers progress. ”It’ll be thirteen,” he says at eleven, and then “thirteen,” he says with the last. Sets the cane down. “Get up.” He does. Feanor looks him over.

**[Continue to Chapter 5]**


	5. (asks for help staying awake: conclusion)

“Do you think that will suffice for your attention?’’

“Yes.” He does. He’s still shaking slightly, but not with tiredness any longer. The ghost of the fabric of his nightshirt against the marks stings.  
"Thank you."

“Good. As you were.” He takes the writing desk, sits back down. Is careful not to tuck his legs under him, against a wish to. The floor under him hurts. He can keep the pen neat; his mind does not attempt to sink to dreams.

“Read me the last five lines,” says Feanor. He does. 

“Copy that last again, replace the second point -”. He writes.


	6. (does not ask for help staying awake)

He tries to put his attention into the notes. Bites down on the thumb of his other hand. Tries to shift more, a little, not enough that Feanor might need to take notice of it.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. When he opens them to the paper next, his hand has drawn a black mark across it. Feanor is standing over him.

“Am I boring you?”

“No.” He doesn’t want to look up from the paper. 

“Get up and go find me a cane.” He puts the writing desk aside and stands. Brings one. Feanor is rifling through a cabinet; emerges with a paddle, smoothed metal with holes drilled through it. He takes the cane, gestures to the desk and to Nolofinwe’s nightshirt. “Take that up and bend over.” He does. He’s trembling a little.

**[For Nolofinwe to ask to be restrained, see Chapter 7]**

** **[Otherwise, see Chapter 8]** **


	7. (does not ask for help staying awake->asks to be restrained)

“May I be restrained?” he asks, when Feanor makes no move to do it. 

“No. Turn around, hands on the desk.” He turns. Feanor brings the cane across the front of his thighs, once, then again right below it. He can see the red lines of it blooming up as he tries to jerk back against the desk, not jump -

“Bend over.” He does.

It is not true, that there is no purpose in trying to stay still. He owes his obedience to Feanor as he does his loyalty, through the King’s command. He knows what it is Feanor wants of him.

It is true that it does not have very much effect, that he tries. Feanor begins the paddling quickly, leaving no time between strikes for him to correct himself back into place. Stops before long, irritation clear in his voice. “Turn around.” Enough strikes had landed to make him bite his lip as he presses back against the table’s edge. He gets three strokes of the cane this time, one landing directly over a previous mark; his knees fold enough that he almost falls. 

This time when he bends back over, Feanor puts a hand on his back, moves his own foot to pin Nolofinwe’s legs. He has a moment to be grateful before the paddling begins again. This time each hit lands where it was aimed, Feanor holding him in place, bringing the paddle down with quick blistering strikes. He doesn’t stop for a while after that. When he does Nolofinwe barely manages not to fall again when he’s let go. His arm hurts from how tightly he’s held it, wrapped his fingers around it (Feanor had still not restrained his  _ hands _ ).

**[Continue to Chapter 9]**


	8. (does not ask for help staying awake->does not ask to be restrained)

Feanor does not move to restrain him. He trembles harder, tries to press himself into the table. (It is not true, that there is no purpose in trying to stay still. He owes his obedience to Feanor as he does his loyalty, through the King’s command. He knows what it is Feanor wants of him.

It is true that it does not have very much effect, that he tries.) Feanor begins the paddling quickly, leaving no time between strikes for him to correct himself back into place. Stops before long, irritation clear in his voice. “Turn around.” Enough strikes had landed to make him bite his lip as he presses back against the table’s edge. Feanor has picked up the cane. Brings it down across the front of his thighs, four times, three one under the other, the fourth laid across the middle second. He does not fall; thinks it may only be because they came too quickly for his knees to finish folding.

This time when he bends over, Feanor puts a hand on his back, moves his own foot to pin Nolofinwe’s legs. He has a moment to be grateful before the paddling begins again. This time each hit lands where it was aimed, Feanor holding him in place, bringing the paddle down with quick blistering strikes. He doesn’t stop for a while after that. When he does Nolofinwe barely manages not to fall again when he’s let go. His arm hurts from how tightly he’s held it, wrapped his fingers around it (Feanor had still not restrained his  _ hands _ ).

**[Continue to Chapter 9]**


	9. (does not ask for help staying awake: conclusion)

“On the bed. On your knees, head down.” He leans on the table and stands. The bed seems both very far and very close. He goes. 

“20,” says Feanor, following him closer. He’s shaking some again. (It won’t be, not if Feanor still doesn’t restrain him. Will be whatever number Feanor decides, then. But that is what it would be in any case.)

“Count them,” adds Feanor, tapping the cane against him.  _ That _ hurts, already. He nods. 

“One.” He manages that one clearly. With the cane, at least, the strokes are spaced out enough that he can correct his position. “21,” notes Feanor.  _ Please _ , he almost wants to say. But he should not plead with Feanor pointlessly. He presses his mouth back into his arm.

“Two.” “22.”

By eight he is failing to pronounce the numbers plainly on first attempt. Feanor takes over the count at 12. Raises it by three, probably for that, but stops issuing penalty strokes after that. Does not start issuing them again as Nolofinwe is slower to return to position.

They get to thirty-five. 

“Get up.” He does. Tries not to lean on the bed overmuch. His whole body aches, each stroke feeling like it stands out over his bruises.

”Over the desk.”  _ Please - _ . He goes. He should not hope that Feanor maybe only wants to look at him. It won’t help, if Feanor brings over the cane again. Or something else.

“I think you need something to remember,” Feanor says. Comes up behind him, close enough that Nolofinwe can feel Feanor’s own clothing against the marks, can feel -. (That’s - better than a cane-)

Feanor thrusts into him with no further preamble. Fucks him, hard and deeply. Is as good as his word, as always, and as good at finding the actions that fulfill his goal. By the time he finishes and pulls out, Nolofinwe feels sore everywhere inside, his entrance aching with his bruises.

“Get up.” He tries not to look at the writing desk by the wall, nothing to suggest how much he wishes very much Feanor will decide he has enough to remember. “Do you think that will suffice for your attention?”

“Yes.” That word he tries to make as clear as he can get it out. (He’s - not sure he could fall asleep if he wanted to.)

“There’s a stool under that table. Bring it over.” He does. “Sit.” He does. The edge digs into a mark. He’s not sure he can find a way to sit where it does not, and it will irritate Feanor if he shifts too much. (It will not irritate Feanor if he shifts not too much.) He aches inside and out, the lines of the cane throb. The writing desk, when he picks it up, presses into the marks of the penalty strokes.

“Read me the last five lines,” says Feanor. He does. His voice hitches slightly. Feanor does not remark on it.

“Copy that last again, replace the second point -”. He writes.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> (It looks like AO3 has over a dozen tired [character] tags but no supertag for this?  
Also I can't find any established tag for rock-and-a-hard-place/no good options...)
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


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